Another year, another day of carnage.

It was around eleven Monday night that I decided to try and “fly under the radar”. Could I really glide through my birthday relatively unnoticed? Could I really go without celebrating me for another year? 

Let me be clear, I don’t hate birthdays, I’m just not keen on them. There’s a lot of pressure: what do you want? What are your plans? What do you do when everyone sings the dreaded “Happy Birthday”, and how do you look at that one person who always overeggs it in their desperate bid to steal the attention, even for a minute?

As it was, yes, I could – relatively, anyway. I think one of my greatest fears was that somebody was going to create a “happy birthday” thread on the Lovehoney forum. Perhaps fortunately, that fear didn’t come to pass. 

Another flashback: when I used to work for the NHS, I remember my colleagues – lovely as they were – putting balloons and bunting up for my 22nd birthday. I had patients coming up to me – lovely as they also were – wishing me a happy birthday and hugging me. I’m not someone who likes to be the centre of attention when I’m working, after all, I’m just trying to do my job. 

If I get attention and validation, I want it to be for something I have done, not for simply existing another year. 

An earlier flashback: I had a dinner lady – a warm, wonderful lady with terrible, tobacco-stained teeth – in primary school, who used to give the kids birthday kisses (on the cheek, nothing weird) on their birthday. I lost count of how many headaches and tummy aches we suddenly used to get to avoid birthday kisses from Mrs Damson. We adored her for the other 364 days of the year.

So maybe, trying to fly under the radar has been ingrained in me since then.  

I tried making a birthday carrot cake on Monday, ready for a family visit yesterday, but that didn’t go so well: the top burnt and half of the cake stuck in the tin, tearing the whole thing in two. Not to be outdone I crumbed it, mixed it with some of the cream cheese frosting I made, threw it in a clean rectangular tin and froze that for an hour then turned it out, frosted it with more cream cheese frosting and decorated it with chopped nuts, ribbon and little sugar carrot decorations. If I was going for “dorm birthday cake” then I’m sure it would have made the grade, but my family know that I can do so, so much better. 

Google was the first to wish me a happy birthday, followed by Sir Snookiebear, Master third and Mr C fourth. I’d expect no less from Sir, of course, the Lord of Organisation that he is. 

I woke at 11:30am yesterday, to the sound of Master’s voice and another man’s. I didn’t know the other man’s but I guessed it must have been one of two engineers: one for a window, and one for the wifi. 

I got dressed and padded out to be a part of the conversation, and I was pleasantly surprised by what greeted me: Master had tidied the lounge ahead of the first engineer’s arrival. So he can tidy up when he wants to, then. 

“Happy birthday” Master said to me in acknowledgement. I shushed him. 

“It’s a normal Tuesday, nothing going on” I smile. The engineer laughs. 

 “Happy birthday” he says. 

“Thankyou” I reply.

“I’ll wait until you leave, you don’t need to witness the execution” I add. The engineer laughs more. 

Master bought me my signature fragrance – Carolina Herrera’s “Good Girl” – for my birthday. It’s one of those things: it was once bought for me as a tongue-in-cheek joke, but it’s the one fragrance that everyone comments on and says how lovely it smells anytime I wear it. So the joke’s on them I guess.  

My Mum and brother didn’t come up as such, and that had to do with Master having a sniffle (whatever it is, I don’t appear to have it). Mum is trying to avoid coughs and sneezes as much as possible, so that she can be on fighting form for her surgery – a month away now, we finally have a date. 

So instead, she came up and we chatted over the front gate with tea and carrot cake, Covid-era style.

Mum is well; she spoilt me to two new tops and a pair of flowery silver earrings for my birthday. I’d asked for casual t-shirts for my birthday but Mum didn’t want to buy me t-shirts; she doesn’t find them dressy enough for me. I appreciate that, but the thought behind my ask wasn’t fashion, it was practicality: I have plenty of nice, dressy tops, but what I really needed was more everyday clothing.  

The camel brown top was “just okay”: Mum said she liked it in the photo, but she agreed, it didn’t suit me personally. The blue-grey short-sleeve top with the black floral cascade print and button-up neckline, though? That one was a win. 

“With a pair of pearl earrings, I think it’d be spot on” Mum says. 

So I disappeared for five, pulled my hair up in a quick bun, swapped my jeans for a pair of smart black trousers and put my floral Swarovski-and-pearl drop earrings in, a little treat to myself from a while ago. When I returned, Mum cooed. 

“Much better!” she says. “God, when you dress up, you’re bloody amazing” she adds. Even Master looks at me wide-eyed. 

I took a piece of carrot cake out to Mr C as well, who is working on the new workshop he’s building. I call to him and he tells me to wait one moment, I do. 

“Happy birthday again, by the way” he says. I thank him again. 

I don’t know why, but from him, it means that little bit more. It’s not a romantic thing, at least I don’t think it is. He’s normally quite a gruff fellow with most people, so when he’s soft and gentle with me? Well, then it’s quite hard not to melt just a little. 

 We chatted a short while, and Mr C resorts to securing his old shed by screwing the overlapping doors together with a couple of long wood screws. It raises an eyebrow. 

“Well, that’s one way of securing your property” I say dryly. 

 “Securing your property”, I realised after, with screws or staples or whatever, could be taken out of context if a man was so inclined. I hadn’t thought about the implications of my words at the time, but, I realised after, they could imply a whole other kind of “property”, and I had no doubt that the likes of Sir JGood could find all kinds of ways to “secure” his “property”. Very, very, firmly. 

And perhaps not surprisingly, such thoughts are highly arousing to women like me. 

The cause of our three-day wifi carnage was an IP conflict, so we spent yesterday with the router stripped back to basics and me setting up an extended 2.4Ghz network, then adding all of our gizmos and gadgets onto that. I stepped out to reconnect an external security camera, but I’d forgotten to power it up first. 

Sure enough, a wild Mr C appears. He makes out that he’s just in the garden when I am, but as always, he stops to chat to me. 

“Works on wishful thinking, does it?” Mr C says of the camera. I glare at him, but it’s hard not to smile. 

“It’s my birthday, that means you have to be nice to me” I say. 

“I am” he replies, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t wind you up”. I shake my head at him. 

“I’d expect no less from you” I reply. 

“That carrot cake was perfect, by the way” he says. “Sometimes they’re a bit dry, but yours was spot-on”. I thank him for his kind words. I neglect to mention my earlier carrot cake calamity. 

I’m confused as I always am by Mr C, by his acting surprised to see me when my presence should be fairly obvious. I mean, if you live in a property with a shared garden, with a neighbour who is likely to be at home when you come home from wherever, and the shared garden gate is visibly open when you get home, then logic would reasonably suggest that your neighbour might be in the aforementioned shared garden space, would it not?  

So I asked Master about it. Does he do it with him, does he act surprised to see him? Does he stop and chat with him as much? And so on. 

“Not as much as he does you” he replies. I don’t know why I asked – I don’t know why I asked a question I perhaps didn’t want the answer to. 

I reject Mr C’s affections, at least I think I do, or do I? I’ve started questioning myself now.  I’ve got Camilla Cabello’s “Liar” stuck in my head. I don’t want him, but damn it if he’s making a liar outta me too. 

Could I deal with three? That’s the critical question, especially with one who is prone to jealousy. After all, it only takes one jealous person to make non-monogamy miserable for everyone involved. 

So I think that’s just it: I don’t want him because of his jealousy; I don’t want someone who thinks they have to compete with my existing partners for my time and attention. I’ve dealt with that before and it was nothing but headaches for everyone involved, including the jealous partner. 

Also, I don’t want to be with someone who plays jealousy-making games. Relationships shouldn’t feel like an episode of TOWIE. 

But other than that? He and I get along totally fine. 

Dinner was a burger from Gourmet Burger Kitchen, with a bubble tea that I ordered from elsewhere. It was bad, it was unhealthy and the calories definitely exceeded our daily allowance. 

“Fuck it, it’s your birthday” Master smiles.